


Rule Number Eight

by drown (teii)



Category: Motorcity
Genre: Fluff, Humor, M/M, slight mentions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-18
Updated: 2012-07-18
Packaged: 2017-11-10 05:19:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/462615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teii/pseuds/drown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Texas, in pure altruism and benevolence, single-handedly fixes all of Chuck's problems.</p><p>Or at least, he tries to.</p><p>One-sided Chuck/Mike, eventual Chuck/Texas</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rule Number Eight

"Hey. _Hey._ "

Chuck is rooted to the ground, beyond mortified, his vision tunneling into pinpricks and Mike's voice echoing quietly around his skull, though he doesn't-- can't comprehend what Mike's trying to say.

"Look, man. I..."

And there it is again: that tightening of lips-- as if Mike doesn't know whether to smile or not, the cautionary pat on his shoulder, the eyes narrowing in concern. As if something is _wrong_ with him, and of course there is.

"...really flattered, honest. But..."

He wants to vomit, or run. But he stays and feels his heart chewed up from acid and his stomach drop twenty stories down, embarrassment and disappointment bubbling hot through his bloodstream.

Because Mike is doing the right thing-- the proper thing. Being absolutely upfront and sincere about it all, but it doesn't help.

"...you'll be ok, right?"

And Chuck's not sure what to say.

\--

The rest of the Burners never had to ask, but each of them knew that Something Happened when Chuck made his way past Mutt and haltingly asked Julie if he could ride in 9lives today.

It's dead silent in all four cars, no one wanting to be the one to ask what's wrong, though Texas' icon pops up every now and again worried, "you guys aren't dead, right? If you guys turned into ghosts, Texas promises to stop eating cherries. Can you guys hear me? Hello, hello? Testing, one, two, one two; rowdy rutabaga, cantaloupe country, matchstick malchicks, helloooooooooo..." to which everyone ignores.

"Chuck doesn't even _scream_ anymore," Julie conspiratorially whispers to the rest of them in Mutt Dogs, though they already knew. Three pairs of eyes flicker onto Mike, but he doesn't say anything, merely sipping on his thrice filtered tepid water, fixing them all a blank look in return.

\--

And it's only a matter of time before Texas decides to get to the bottom of this.

"You're riding with me today, pipsqueak," he demands, arms akimbo and standing resolutely next to Whiptail, blocking the passenger door.

"Uh, Tex?"

"Shh, Dutch, Daddy Texas' doing us all a favor here."

Chuck shrinks away, but it only serves to make Texas bolder. "I'll let you hold my level 57 axe _AND_ reinstall that passenger seatbelt."

"I don't think--"

"Just go with him, Chuck," Mike's voice cuts through, and the argument dies, with Chuck silently marching towards Stronghorn without another complaint, and Texas utterly baffled.

"Dude, how did you do that?"

\--

"Ok, now you gotta tell me what's up."

Chuck gives Tex a wary glance from the corner of the passenger seat where he scrunched himself up in an almost fetal position, protecting his vital organs in case Texas or something in the car would punch him at any given moment.

Texas stays silent for a miraculous twelve seconds after his blunt demand, before whirling a finger in the air, "alright then, since you're being a little girl about this whole thing, now I'm gonna guess and you're gonna tell me yes or no."

"I--"

"Theory number one," Texas reads out loud from a text screen popping up on the lower left corner of his dash, "you told Mike that you're actually a cyborg alien sent down to do recon and feed back information to your sentient biomass collective."

"Texas, that's not even--"

"I mean, honestly, I don't think that's a big deal, unless you're telling them how sweet my kicks are and planning to use them against me, then we've got a problem."

"Tex--"

"Theory number two, _Mike's_ the one who's a cyborg alien sent down to do recon and--"

"I told him that I liked him!" Chuck snaps, finally sitting up and hissing with so much unrestrained venom that Texas actually leans away, blinking owlishly at Chuck.

Suddenly realizing what he just said, Chuck folds back up and hides his face in the juncture of his knees, making small choking sounds as if his own embarrassment was threatening to suffocate him.

Texas lets out a long hmm, before shrugging, "Well, that's pretty stupid."

Chuck lets out a wobbly and defeated, "thanks," but Texas waves it off.

"I like him too."

Chuck pulls his bangs out of his eyes to fix Texas with an incredulous stare. “What?”

"Yeah, so does Julie. And Dutch. Jacob too. And that whole entire orphanage that he saved from burning down the ground. He could probably run for mayor of Motorcity at this point."

Chuck lets out a weird hybrid of a sigh and whimper, letting his head fall back onto the side door with a quiet thunk. It registers in Texas' head that he's heard that sound from someone else before, and around that time...

"You told Mike you want to have his cyborg babies!" Texas blurted out, slotting in the memory of the time one of his girl cousins tried proposing to her boyfriend and the idiot took off, only to be dragged back two hours later by his big sister Ginger with a few choice words and choicer kicks to the head.

"I never said--"

"Uh huh, sure, don't lie to Texas, sugarpie, it'll be worse off for you in the long run.

What you gotta do is tell him that you aren’t going to take his shit and that Mutt needs to find herself a nice boy car to meet and settle down with and raise a family. We’ll get Dutch to build one for her.” Texas smoothly executes, repeating the speech Ate Ginger gives to every single one of their girl cousins and divorced aunts, just modifying it a bit to fit the situation. He turns his head to gauge Chuck’s reaction, who’s looks pretty much catatonic next to him. “Uh. You ok there, nerd?”

Chuck puffs out a withering sigh, kneading his temples, “and what, in nine months after their car honeymoon she’ll give birth to a Bug?”

Texas scoffs, “Oh, like THAT makes sense. They’re gonna have a vespa together, stupid. God, you’re the worst sometimes.”

Chuck doesn't have a reply to that besides a strangled, deranged bark of laughter that kind of scared Texas for a moment, but Chuck's sitting up just a little bit straighter and doesn't look like he wants to do a diveroll out of Stronghorn anymore, so Texas counts that as a minor victory.

\--

It was one thing to see Chuck walk out of Stronghorn at the end of the day not on the verge of tears or bee-lining to the closest wastebasket like all the other times he’s stumbled out of the sports car, but it was another entirely when he voluntarily climbs into Texas' car the very next day.

No one says anything about it, the five of them out on a simple loop around Motorcity on the lookout for any lurking Kane bots. Mike, Dutch, and Julie keeping in constant contact, per protocol, though all they picked up from Stronghorn was dead air. It's only after Dutch figured that 45 minutes of continued silence from both Chuck and Texas was too bizarre to contemplate and flicked open a line into Stronghorn.

“Hey, you guys doing ok?” Dutch cautiously asks, trying not to imagine their mangled bodies burnt to a crisp in a blazing car fire somewhere, “did you two find anything?”

Texas’ icon pops up, with a ridiculously huge shit-eating grin plastered on, “Yeah, whatever, shut up for a sec, Dutch—me and honeycake made up this awesome joke just now—just listen to this.” Dutch can hear the unmistakable sound of a high-five underneath all the pleased snorting and sniggering, and he braces himself for the worst.

Chuck’s icon blips in next to Texas’, “Ok, ok, so—fff-, I swear, stop it, stop hitting me, THAT TICKLES, ok, here it goes—Did you hear about the midget fortune-teller that escaped from prison?”

“Dutch? Dutch, buddy, did you?”

“Did you?”

“Didja didja?”

Dutch narrows his eyes at their icons taking up more and more space, crowding into his personal space until he deadpans out, “No I haven’t.”

“Well, the police are looking for a small medium at large!”

The two avatars burst out into huge peals of laughter, leaving Dutch staring blankly at his console. “That’s it?”

“What?”

“You spent all that time making up that joke, and you didn’t find any Kane bots?”

Chuck’s avatar shrinks out of guilt, and Texas ‘ goes cross-eyed. “Oh, wait, that’s what we were doing? Ohhhhhhhhh...”

Dutch flicks them both off of his dash, before opening a line into Mutt.

“Hey Mike.”

“Dutch, what’s u—“

“FIX IT.”

\--

By the time the rest of the Burners regroup back at Jacob’s diner, Mike jumps out of Mutt and darts towards Stronghorn, knocking on the glass.

“Chuck, can we talk?”

There’s a 30 second buffer as Chuck’s yelps and squeals before Texas emerges from the car with Chuck thrown over his shoulder.

“He says yes,” Texas replies, letting Chuck off his shoulder and wheeling him around to face Mike. He strolls off, but not without hissing, "remember the eight step plan," before wheeling around with a double thumbs up.

"Hi," Chuck softly mumbles out.

And Mike's a little lost for words.

\--

The next day, Chuck is back in Mutt and screaming away as per usual. He doesn’t talk as much as before, but each of the Burners breathe out a sigh of relief at every unearthly shriek they hear from Chuck’s icon.

After climbing out of Mutt, chuck tries to hide away into the back garage, but Texas swings an arm around his shoulder, already prepared with another speech: “Look, if he's not into you, then screw him. You’re worth ten of h—well, maybe not, Texas’ not gonna lie. POINT IS: you can’t let this ruin your life. If you can’t punch the problem away, then you gotta show the problem that you’re going to have so much fun, that you don’t have time for the problem to punch you first.” A pause. “Metaphorically punch you. Texas doesn’t think Mike would actually punch you.” Texas squeezes Chuck’s hand, and Chuck almost squeezes back before Texas pulls away.

“Don’t worry, I gotta whollllllllllllle lotta stuff planned ahead, shortstuff.”

Chuck can practically hear the gears in Texas' head whir and click, and though he knows better, he gives a quiet half-grin in return.

\--

A week goes by before Texas stops by Mutt again while Chuck’s underneath her, tweaking some valves, and lightly kicks at Chuck’s ankles.

“Texas has a surprise for you, pumpkin.”

Chuck slowly wheels out and aims a kick back at Texas' feet, but misses.

"What is it?"

“Can't tell ya just yet. All you gotta do is put on this blindfold, take off your shirt, and get into my car.”

\--

 

Chuck negotiated for a full 20 minutes before Texas agreed to getting rid of the blindfold, though Chuck had to sacrifice his shoes in exchange. For whatever reason, Texas is blasting the AC on high, and Chuck hugs his sides, shivering all the while.

“Where…are we going, exactly?”

“Oh man, uh, Texas’ not…supposed to tell you…? But seriously, you’ll love it, it’s just like that sword waving, long speech giving thing we keep going to.”

Chuck’s gaze slides towards the 84 level axe that Texas has duct taped to the back of the driver’s seat and is about to say something about it, but the wind is knocked out of his lungs instead as Texas slams on the breaks and cuts the engine in one fluid motion. “We’re here!”

 

They’re on the third floor of an abandoned multi-level parking lot with six trash can fire pits surrounding a group of people yelling and screaming and stomping as an anguished wail suddenly pierces through the din.

Chuck kind of wishes he had brought the blindfold. He flattens himself into the seat, slumping down slightly. “Can I stay in the car? Better yet, can we just go home, I just suddenly realized that, heh, what do you know, I’m absolutely starving—“

“No can do, buddy,” Texas , snapping the seat belt off Chuck and bounds out of the car, practically skipping.

They make their way towards the crowd, stepping over only two mutant rats and a homeless man fighting over a chicken leg bone, just in time to witness a 6’5 tattoo-covered troll of a man spit out a bloody molar, glaring daggers at a woman standing two feet away with her fists bandaged and splotched with red, assuming a defensive stance, with the shouting and hollering escalating in the thick swamp of adrenaline. Chuck seizes Texas’ arm to pull him back into whispering range, “TEXAS!” he hissed out, his voice going up a few octaves, “what did you bring me to?”

“Uh…not sure if I can tell you now…I think I can? Wait, lemme ask someone –“

“HEY! MORON!” A thin squirrel-faced man raised a hand with the thumb and pointer finger missing, and Texas shouts back, “WHAT’S UP, ASSHOLE!” with a jaunty wave of his own, making his way through the throng.

After five minutes, it becomes evident to Chuck that 'moron' wasn’t so much a slight as it was a crude endearment in their little circle, as several others nodded to Texas, parroting the squirrel-man’s greeting. Chuck looks from face to face, terrified of making eye contact of any of them, noticing all the bare-chested men and women in sports bras or tank tops. None of them had shoes on.

“Moron, you brought your little sister to play?” a voice cuts through the murmuring crowd, and Chuck looks up to see a burly man with a no-nonsense buzzcut, deep sunken eyes, and a cigarette hanging off his lips.

Chuck tries his best to look offended, even pushing back his bangs, but the way the guy was chewing so aggressively on his cigarette just made him simply take two steps back instead. The man only narrows his blood-shot eyes and enunciates slowly around the stick, “Rule Number Eight.”

Chuck’s stomach drops whe n he se e s the shocked look on Texas’ face .“Wait—oh, uh, can we.pretend rule number eight doesn’t exist?”

“RULE NUMBER EIGHT!” The crowd roared in agreement, and descends upon him, dragging him into the center of the ring.

Chuck’s screaming at the top of his lungs as panic sets in, frantically looking for Texas, but his fellow Burner simply shakes his head and mouths “sorry sorry sorry!”

They finally let him go when he’s in the dead center of the crowd. Chuck’s head swivels around and it’s only in the corner of his eye that he sees the human wall part and someone stepping forward. Chuck cradles his thin arms, t and unwilling to turn around, but Texas is desperately pointing behind him and waving his hands, and by the time Chuck finally decides to follow his gaze, he gets knocked to the ground, face-first.

 

\--

“For the record, that was _nothing_ like LARP.”

They’re both sipping on the chilled sports drinks that Texas took out of the mini-cooler in Stronghorn, sitting on the ground, leaning against the car, rubbing their bruises and sore spots. Chuck is sporting a bloodied nose, scabbed knuckles, a swelling bump on the head, and for whatever reason, bite marks on his calves. Texas has purpling bruises all over his arms and back, a split lip, and matching black eyes.

“This was stupid. This was so absolutely, incredibly, 110% _stupid_.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Texas huffs, crossing his arms, “Texas got it the first fifty times you’ve said it.”

“I can't believe I didn't die. I can't believe I'm still breathing semi-properly,” Chuck croaks out despite the damage of his throat from the near-constant screaming. Texas gave him back his shirt, but it was immediately ripped up and put to use as makeshift bandages. Chuck gingerly touches his face, and finds that he has blood on his fingertips. He squeals, quickly wiping it off on his jeans.

Te xas le ans in. “Got some iodine and saltines in the car for that.”

Chuck uses up the very last of his strength to tilt his head towards Texas, and is half way to scrunching up his nose before he gives up and brings his head back to hit the car with a dead thump. “I look like I got ran over by Jacob’s truck."

“Texas just says that this all came from punching stuff. Really hard. A lot of times.”

Chuck covers his face with his hands, “I—just— _dude_. That wasn’t a club. That was a cult. _You brought me to a cult_. One that’s probably going to give me life-long rabies.“ He notes, looking down at his ankle, the half moon rings of teeth marks still embedded into his skin.”

“Pssh, Texas knows a cult when he sees one, and I’ve never seen any goat sacrifices or chanting.”

“Tonight was worse than fighting against Kane. Way worse. I’ve never been so terrified in my life. This is the most beat up I’ve ever been." Chuck grabs onto Texas' wifebeater, latching onto the fabric, breathing hard as he pulls Texas in, "We are never doing this again. You are never doing this again. I'll kill you before you come down here to kill yourself."

“Hey, live a little,” Texas nudged him with a shoulder, digging right into a bruise, and Chuck yelps, but Texas rests his bottle on the spot, soothing the sting. Chuck’s still glaring at him, and quickly backpe dals, “ok ok, I’ll stop coming.”

It’s quiet for awhile , until Texas slides closer to Chuck. “For what it’s worth, Texas thought you were awesome out there, sugarpuff.” Chuck's eyes flickers upwards to see Texas give him a wide smile, bleeding gums showing and all, and he sighs.

"Seriously. You kneeing that guy in the throat? Beautiful. Texas always knew you were fucking amazing, you just never wanted to show it."

Chuck wants to tell him that it’s not likely, and only a month ago, Texas was laughing at his choice of pizza toppings of all things, but right now, the lump of muscle sitting next to him is giving him a look that’s only reserved for workout videos and high protein shakes, and Chuck can feel his face turning red.

“Hey uh, cupcake,” Texas starts off, clearing his throat loudly. “Y’know, if you really were a cyborg alien coming down here to study my kicks, I just wanted you to know I have a lot of them, and I’m still making up new ones, so you’ll have to stay for like—forever, just to learn them all.”

And Chuck’s not sure what to say to that—but he does know what to do.

He drags a hand over to wipe off a thin stream of blood from Texas’ lips, and leans in: “Hey. _Hey_.”

“Yeah?”

“Guess what?” He leans in closer, finding it funny how Texas is lowering his gaze, and there’s a slight thrill that rushes up his spine at the idea of Texas lost for words.

“…chicken butt?”

Chuck shakes his head. “I know a place nearby that sells ice cream topped with falafels.”

Texas looks back up, his jaw hung open. "Shut. Up."

“And baklava with sriracha sau—.”

“I love you.”

Texas winces and pulls down his baseball cap, cheeks burning. “Metaphorically. Texas meant that metaphorically.”

And Chuck, for the first time in two weeks, starts laughing.

(Their first kiss happens three hours later, around seven am when they finally get back to the garage and stumbling their way to the closest couch to break their fall. Their lips are sticky, spicy, and overly, incorrigibly sweet, and though the sriracha burns his mouth, Texas leans in further and smiles into the kiss, to which Chuck smiles back.)

**Author's Note:**

> AN: Fight club’s rule number one and two are: “YOU DO NOT TALK ABOUT FIGHT CLUB.” The eighth rule is: “if this is your first night of fight club, _you have to fight_ ”.


End file.
